Dead Shot

by Annie Solomon

  “I don’t trust her. I can’t protect you like this.”

  “Tough luck, baby, because I’m not sending her away.” And she, too, strode off, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  Shut out and frustrated, Ray clenched his fists, looked around for something to throw. Or punch. But he did neither. Seething with manufactured calm, he made himself breathe instead. In and out to a steady count until the calm was real enough.

  Because the threat was, whether Gillian wanted to acknowledge the danger or not. And it could be coming from the people closest to her.

  Maddie leaned against the closed bathroom door. Beneath her clothes, she was sweating. She didn’t need the mirror to know she looked horrible, because she felt horrible. Sick and swirly and anxious.

  She remembered those bitches at Hadley calling her the coal miner’s daughter, and how many times Gillian had stood up for her. They’d thumbed their noses at the snobs and to hell with everyone else.

  And now?

  She tossed the clothes she’d grabbed from the drawer on the toilet, leaving the cell phone she snagged beneath them in her hand. For an instant, she stared at it as if it might howl at her. Then she closed her eyes and punched in a number.

  The call rang and was answered. Maddie identified herself and her reason for calling. Five minutes later, she got the assurance she’d been seeking, but it didn’t make her feel better. Didn’t make her trust that they wouldn’t be caught. They were skirting too close to the edge. Someone was bound to slip up.

  28

  While Gillian was getting ready, Ray called the office and had them check the databases for Kenny Post. He also asked them to find a photo and scan whatever crowd footage of the museum party they could get to see if Post was there. If the threats were from him, and he was in Nashville, protection would rise to a whole new level.

  In the meantime, they would check with contacts in New York and see if they could track him down. Finally, he asked someone to pick up Maddie’s laptop. There were ways of retrieving deleted messages off the hard drive, and Carlson kept two IT experts on staff. If Maddie created those threats, they’d find out.

  “And send someone over to the Art House now,” he said at last. “Miss Gray has an appointment, and I want to make sure we have exit strategies in place, just in case.”

  Then he called Jimmy. He wasn’t there, but he left a message about Gillian’s ex.

  While he waited for more definitive information on Kenny Post, he used Maddie’s computer to check out the basics for himself.

  Reviewers called Black Roach’s music “head-pounding,” “brutal,” and “aggressive,” and touted Kenny Post as the band’s Sid Vicious–inspired front man. A picture showed him tall and lanky, with ripped jeans and heavy, motorcycle boots. He had greasy dark hair, wore a goatee and a sneer. Past the reviews, there were also some blotter reports, one an incident in SoHo where he’d ripped apart a bar and was hauled off by the cops. Another in Chicago, where he attacked a hotel room.

  Bad news all around.

  Bad enough to want Gillian dead?

  “Been reading up on your boy,” Ray said to Gillian when she came out of her room. She wore a tiny jean skirt that cupped her ass, a floaty, see-through blouse that hid and revealed her breasts, and black boots with fuck-me heels that added a good four inches to her petite frame. Tough, vulnerable, and sexy all at the same time. A silent groan of self-pity went off inside Ray.

  “He’s not my boy anymore,” she said, pouring herself another cup of coffee and sitting on a stool by the counter. She crossed her legs, the skirt riding high on her thighs, and Ray looked away.

  “Sounds like a real heartbreaker.”

  She laughed without smiling. “Well, he did like to break things.”

  “You, for instance?”

  She paused in the action of stirring sugar into her coffee and looked at him questioningly.

  “He ever hit you?” he said bluntly.

  She returned to doctoring her coffee. “Once or twice. When he was drunk. Then again, I got in a few good ones, too. And keep the lectures to yourself.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I heard you anyway.” She lifted her cup, looked at him over the rim. “Look, he’s gone,” she said. “Been gone.

  Just like all the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “All the loves of my life.”

  A rope of something like jealousy tightened inside him. “You were in love with him?”

  She shrugged. Hid behind her coffee cup. “He passed the time.”

  Had she ever been in love with anyone? Ever taken any relationship seriously? More important, had anyone ever been in love with her? Really cared about her?

  He thought of Genevra’s harsh bite and Chip’s acquiescence to it. Of his own white-knight refusal of her body. He should fuck her and get it over with. If he believed her, it would have meant nothing to her, and it might let him breathe again.

  But he didn’t believe her. More fool him.

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t keep track. But if he’s not on tour, he’d be at his apartment. If he’s on tour, you can call the booking agent to find out where.” She gave him the address and the relevant phone numbers.

  An hour later, he had Kenny Post’s arrest record in front of him, but no one had been able to track him down in New York. He wasn’t at his apartment, and his booking agent had nothing scheduled and no idea where he might be. Neither, it seemed, did the rest of the band. Kenny Post had disappeared.

  Ray wasn’t taking chances. He ordered a car and driver, and the hell with blending in.

  Once again, Maddie refused a ride.

  “Whatever,” he said, glad to keep as much distance between the two women as possible. But Gillian had other ideas.

  “How are you going to get there?” Gillian asked Mad-die. “Come on, don’t be crazy.”

  “That’s your department,” Maddie said, grabbing a coat and her briefcase.

  “So don’t drive me over the edge,” Gillian said. “You’re coming with us.”

  “Fine,” Ray said, “whatever. Just let’s go.” He waited for Maddie to precede him, then Gillian; then he took his place behind her. They got down to the lobby and the front door, where the car was waiting.

  But between them and the vehicle was a mob of reporters and photographers. They caught sight of Gillian through the glass doors and went wild. Only hotel security kept them from storming the lobby.

  “Jesus,” Ray said. Without another word, he wheeled about, taking Gillian away from the door. “Back entrance!” He spoke into the ear mike and heard the squeal of tires as the limo took off. “Come on.” He pushed Gillian ahead, speeding through the lobby, Maddie running beside them.

  “See, this is why I told you to stay in your room last night.” Ray steered her around a corner. “Tabloids pay good money for information. One of your friends from the bar cashed in.”

  “Or one of the maids.” She flicked a disparaging look at him, and he tugged her forward. “Hey—you picked the hotel.”

  They dashed through the lobby and waited by the door for the car to go around the building. By the time it arrived, some of the paparazzi had found them. Ray took Gillian’s arm and held it as he shoved his way through, blocking her face from the cameras.

  He saw her and Maddie into the limo, then got in beside the driver. While he was sliding in, Gillian pulled one of her insanely brainless stunts.

  She rolled down the window.

  Every camera clicked; reporters shoved and jostled to get a statement from her.

  “Hey, Gillian! Over here!”

  “You going to the museum today, Gillian?”

  “What do you think of the Death Diva murder?”

  “Kill anyone today?”

  Inside, Ray went red in the face, blood pressure shooting skyward. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted at Gillian. “Go!” he said to the driver. “Go! Go! And roll up the da
mn window!”

  The black-tinted glass slid up, and Gillian sat back, a smirk on her face.

  “Are you crazy?” Ray said.

  “You know I am.”

  “Maybe she sent those letters to herself,” Maddie said, double-teaming him.

  That was it. The last straw. “You know what? You want to sneer and laugh and hang yourself, go ahead. But I’ll be damned if I put myself on the line while you do it. I’ll get you to your appointment; then you’re on your own, just like you want to be.”

  29

  Gillian cruised the Art House hallway, carefully examining the photographs on display. Around her, a swarm of children followed, chattering and skipping to keep up.

  She stopped at one interesting shot of a downtown corner. The photographer had captured the edge of a building, half in and out of shadow, creating a knife-blade effect. “Who did this?”

  A hand shot up. It belonged to a small boy with chocolate skin. He had a huge smile on his face, but he couldn’t stand still and swayed back and forth.

  “What did you like about it?” she asked him.

  He grinned at her but didn’t say anything.

  Gillian tried again. “What made you take this picture?”

  “I like the sun,” he said finally. One hand swooped diagonally in a sharp down stroke. “I like the way it cut the building.” Then he laughed, and the other children giggled.

  Gillian laughed, too. “I like the way it cuts the building, too,” she told him.

  Maddie stood off to the side, leaving Gillian with the kids and their teacher. And the man-who-should-be-Ray.

  Gillian remembered him from the museum but forgot his name. Landon? Landsdown? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him, impassive, watchful. He was smaller than Ray. A bland, insurance salesman face. Nothing that made her want to put him in front of her lens. He could have been anyone. Nameless, faceless. A stranger.

  Landowe. That was his name. She rolled it around in her head. Landowe, push a plow. Eat a cow. Raise a sow.

  Jesus. What was with the farm imagery? But she knew.

  Guilt nicked her. Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed things at the hotel. She should have been meek and obedient and hidden from the press.

  Yeah, right. Exposing herself was not only habit, but it was also necessary. How could the killer find her if he didn’t know where she was?

  She stopped in front of a picture of balloons crashing into the sun. “This is fun.” She eyed the sheer colors and the sun’s rays spreading out behind them.

  “That’s Marcy’s,” one of the kids said, and the others agreed, pointing out a slim redhead with Pippi Longstocking braids who hid behind the other children.

  “She’s shy,” several of the children shouted.

  Shy was never Gillian’s problem, and Ray could just like it or lump it.

  Lump it, looked like, since Landowe was here.

  The kids were pulling at her skirt, vying for attention, and she smiled absently and stared at the pictures on the wall. Some of them were quite good, but she couldn’t concentrate. Not with thoughts of Ray boring a hole through her head.

  God, he was a pain in the ass.

  But the new guy didn’t get her blood humming the way Ray did.

  Well, too bad. She had a plan, and if you got in the way of the plan, so long, Marianne.

  She tried to focus on the next picture. A black-andwhite shot of a hood ornament on an old Ford truck.

  “My daddy’s truck,” a tiny voice in the crowd said.

  “That’s Dewayne’s truck,” another voice echoed.

  At least she wouldn’t have to deal with the tension between Maddie and Ray. Now all she had to worry about was the monster. And how long before he came after her.

  Ray got a ride back to the hotel with the guy who brought down Landowe. Carlson wasn’t happy with him, but at this point who the hell cared?

  Now he pulled out of the hotel lot and swung right on West End. The office was in the other direction, but he needed time to cool down, get his breathing going again. So he just drove. Maybe he’d keep on driving. Head down the Trace, get the hell out of Dodge. That had been the plan all along, so why didn’t he just get it done?

  The day was cool, but the sun was doing its duty and struggling through the clouds. Everywhere the pink redbuds were fading, and the dogwoods were going strong. Pansies and iris dotted the Kroger lot in Belle Meade, as if their bright color could make up for the concrete and exhaust.

  Ten minutes down, the road split, and he went left onto Highway 100 where he could pick up the Natchez Trace. But that meant he’d have to go through Bellevue, land of condos and midlevel subdivisions. Land of husbands and wives and children not his own. Land of Nancy and Peter. A little self-torture. Just what he needed.

  But there was something else down Highway 100. A picture of Gillian’s face rose in his head, but he shoved it away. She wasn’t his problem anymore.

  To get his mind off her and the rest of his exes, he pulled into a strip mall, got out of the car, and headed to Starbucks. But his luck was so far gone it was playing in Cleveland. He stopped short. Across the lot, Nancy was struggling with a load of packages and a toddler. And her huge belly was getting in the way of both.

  Shit. He froze. Stay or go? Story of his life.

  He started to pivot away, but before he could make his move, she looked up and saw him. Right straight in the face, bull’s-eye.

  Holding up a package, she waved tentatively. “Well, hey, Ray. What are you up to? Playing hooky?”

  Oh, man, what were the odds? “Sort of.” He crossed over, relieved her of a couple of packages. “You okay?” he asked because he didn’t know what else to say.

  “Fine.”

  Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Her washday look, she used to tell him, and add, “But, hey, you want to do the laundry, I’ll get all dolled up.”

  Why did he remember these things? It killed him that the details of her life were still floating around in his head.

  “Who’s that?” The little boy whose hand she was clutching looked up at him. He was fair-haired like his father, but he had Nancy’s green eyes. A pang Ray refused to acknowledge went through him.

  “That’s Ray,” she told him, ruffling his hair. “Say hi.”

  But the boy only continued to stare at him, making Ray feel like an exhibit at the zoo.

  “So . . . ,” Ray said, searching for something, “you look good.”

  She laughed. “No, I don’t.” She rubbed her protruding belly with a satisfied air and quirked her brows conspiratorially. “Four more weeks.”

  “I heard twins.”

  She nodded. A giggle escaped. “Can you believe it?” It was a cliché to say all pregnant women glowed, but he couldn’t think of a better word to describe the look on her face.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You look . . .” He cleared his throat, the admission sticking there. “. . . very happy.”

  She thought about it. Her smile widened, taking over her whole face. “I guess I am.”

  They gazed at each other, and the uncomfortable moment stretched. Should he mention her father? That he’d seen Jimmy? Since she wasn’t a fan of the sarge, and since his last encounter with Jimmy hadn’t exactly been friendly, mentioning either seemed as awkward as the silence.

  “Well, we should go,” she said at last, then waited expectantly.

  “Oh,” Ray said like a boob. “Here.” He handed her back her packages.

  “See you.” Nancy waved.

  “Sure.” Ray waved back, knowing it wasn’t likely.

  He slipped into Starbucks and ordered his coffee. Like he needed more acid inside him.

  His drink came, and he practically swallowed it whole. Fuck it. So Nancy never looked that happy when she was with him. So what? Let Peter worry about her happiness now. Ray didn’t have the knack. Even his mother had been a sad sack—r
ight until the minute she’d wrapped her car around that tree. Nothing he did ever put a smile on her gin-soaked soul.

  He took what was left of the coffee back with him to the truck. Turned left out of the lot and continued south toward the Trace. Except now he knew he was taking a little detour.

  Highway 100 had once been a two-lane country road that led through farmland. He and Nancy used to drive out here to the Loveless Café for fried chicken and biscuits, and she’d tell him that when she was a kid, the place where he’d stopped for coffee had been the last outpost of midcentury civilization. Beyond it was all grass and farms. He wondered what they’d grown. Tobacco? Dairy cows? Horses, maybe.

  Whatever it was, the farms were mostly gone, and miles of blacktop lapped the pavement. As ubiquitous as fields must once have been, another Kroger shopping center sprang up a few miles farther on, this one with an Ace Hardware and the ever-present nail place. But twenty years ago he would have been in the middle of nowhere. Which is exactly what Holland Gray must have wanted when she moved there.

  He recalled the address from the file at Harley’s and slowed as he approached it.

  The cozy little home sat on a hill on the outermost edge of Davidson County. A split-rail fence lined the drive leading up. Two white clapboard outbuildings dotted the grassy knoll. The house itself had a tidy front porch with dollhouse trim. A couple of old rockers sat on the porch, but whether or not they were the same rockers Gillian had slept in on the cover of People, he couldn’t say. A sturdy stone chimney meant a fireplace inside. A real one, not the ersatz kind with the gas logs.

  Ray understood how Holland could have fallen in love with this sweetheart of a home. Just the kind of romantic little farmhouse a woman in the mood to nest would love.

  But was she in the mood to nest? Her parents had a huge mansion in Belle Meade. Why had she come all the way out here and buried herself? Press reports had her giving up the fast life for her child, but Gillian had been six or seven when Holland renounced the celebrity world. Why the sudden change?

  He slowed, pulled over to stop. He could imagine Holland with her small blond angel of a daughter. A refugee from the bar scene, the fashion shoots, the celebrity treadmill. Twenty years ago the house could have been a refuge. A sanctuary. But nestled among the rolling Tennessee hills, it would also have been isolated from the world. Which would have made it easy for the killer to creep up unnoticed by anyone. Holland could have screamed, and no one would have heard her. And her murderer could have escaped down any one of the twisting offshoots that wound around the hills.